"Zora?"

Her eyelids felt like they were stitched shut, reluctant to move. She forced them open. The light around her was dim, flickering like it couldn't decide whether to stay or go. But the voice—that voice—cut through the haze.

"Jaer?"

"Hey there," he murmured. "I'd ask if you're okay, but..." His words trailed off, and that's when she noticed that something was wrong.

"Did I kill all those..." Zora's question barely escaped her cracked lips. She tried to shift, to see the destruction she felt pulsing around her, but her body refused to obey. It was as if her skin had fused to the steel of the makeshift bed beneath her.

"Just the temple," he said softly, threading between guilt and reassurance. "Don't worry about that. It's not your fault. I came here to help... Finnegan is outside, waiting and—"

But Zora wasn't listening anymore.

She caught a glimpse—through the reflection in Jaer's eyes, a twisted, horrifying mirror. What stared back at her wasn't the woman she remembered. Her skin was charred and torn, patches of raw flesh clinging to the bone. Parts of her skeleton gleamed through the blackened edges, exposed. She didn't recognise the ruin staring back at her.

Panic surged, but her body was too broken to respond.

With what little strength she had, she forced her gaze downward—her belly.

It was untouched. Smooth, whole—like it belonged to someone else entirely.

"Did my baby...?" The words tumbled from her mouth.

"It's a Sternach..."

"Time... it stops... and it comes back and it stops, and again..."

"You must still have venom in your system," Jaer murmured, his eyes flickering over her broken body, tracing the cracks of light splintering through her charred skin. But he forced a smile, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes. "But we'll push this little one to life, right?"

He reached for her hands—what was left of them—careful not to recoil at the sight. His touch was hesitant, gentle, as though he was afraid she might crumble beneath his fingers.

"Don't kill her."

"Her?" Jaer's brow furrowed. "What? It's a girl?"

"Don't kill Zonnestra," she whispered. "It's not her fault... she's scared." Her eyes shimmered with a raw, pleading light. "Promise me."

Jaer swallowed hard, squeezing what remained of her hand. "I promise. She will be strong. Nothing will happen to her. You have my word."

He looked at her—really looked—and saw that there wasn't much left of the Magi he deeply admired. But there was enough. Enough to fight for. Enough to protect.

"I will try to be gentle," he whispered like a vow sealed in the bones of the temple walls.

"Take her out," Zora whispered with exhaustion, pulling at each word. "Don't worry... I can't feel anything."

She tried to smile, but as Jaer's eyes flickered—just for a second—she saw it. The flinch. The slight tightening at the corners of his mouth. The way his gaze skittered away from her face before snapping back like he hadn't just recoiled.

That's when she knew.

She must look like a monster.

Her lips twitched, the attempted smile fading into something more brittle. "Why are you naked?" she asked, her voice raw but edged with a spark of the old Zora, the one who never let anything slide.

Jaer's mouth curled into a smirk, a soft huff of air escaping him—a laugh that didn't quite hide the worry still lurking in his eyes. "I didn't want to burn my robe, and besides, I'm a tiefling," he said, his voice dipping into that familiar, teasing lilt. "The sun can't burn me. I'm a tiefling—basically made of the same matter as dragons. Ever seen a dragon spontaneously combust from a little sunshine? Yeah, me neither. Well... not yet."

His eyes softened as they met hers again. "Why do you think Yeso and I became friends? I was the only one who could handle his tantrum," he added, a hint of nostalgia slipping through his grin, trying to anchor them both in something lighter, something familiar—something before this.

Zora let her head fall back, her gaze fixed on the high, cracked ceiling, refusing to look down—refusing to see what Jaer was doing to her. She could feel nothing, but the sounds filled the emptiness where pain should have been.

First came the wet, tearing sound of skin being ripped apart. It was faint but unmistakable, like fabric tearing in slow motion, the sound stretching thin over her nerves.

Then, a pressure settled low around her cervix—a dull weight that didn't hurt but felt wrong, like her body was a vessel being emptied without her consent.

A sudden, slick, sloshing noise followed as if something had been pulled free from a tight, resisting space—a release she couldn't feel but could hear echoing in the hollow of the room.

"Shit," Jaer muttered.

Zora clenched her jaw, her eyes squeezing shut, bracing for what would come next.

"Is she okay?" Zora's lips curled into a faint smile that flickered and vanished as quickly as it appeared. The room felt too quiet, too still. She strained to hear—something, anything—but there was no cry, no scream, no sharp inhale of new life.

"Jaer?"

He didn't answer at first. His shoulders stiffened, and when he finally spoke, his voice almost choked on the words. "I'm sorry, Zora."

She forced her head to lift, her muscles protesting, but the need to see was stronger than her body's resistance.

Between Jaer's trembling hands lay a tiny, fragile figure—her baby, a little girl just like Orlo said. A shock of vivid red hair crowned the small, delicate head, and from the tiny, unmoving back, translucent wings stretched, catching the light in a way that made them shimmer like glass. So fragile. So still.

Zora's heart clenched, the image burning into her mind. Did Orlo look like this when he was a baby?

"She's… gone?"

Jaer's gaze softened as he looked down at Zora, his fingers trembling slightly as he brushed a stray strand of red hair from the baby's forehead. She was born branded with the Ophius.

"She looks like Zonnestra," he murmured, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. There was warmth in his voice, but it wavered, betraying the weight behind his words. "The name would've fit her perfectly. And she has our mark... she would have been born as a Magi already."

Zora's lips trembled, her breath catching in her throat. "No," she whispered, her voice cracking as tears welled in her eyes. "No, it fits… she is… she is!"

Jaer's smile faltered, his eyes glistening with something dangerously close to breaking. He swallowed hard. The tiny body felt weightless in his hands.

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"Sehr em ver, vida weiter mir tu suchen," Jaer whispered, his voice barely audible, the Magi words slipping from his lips like a prayer or maybe a farewell. He leaned down, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to Zora's forehead where her Ophius still remained.

"It was an honour to have shared a black robe with you," he murmured, his voice breaking as he pulled back, his eyes lingering on her face one last time. "And I hope… I hope I'll find you, and her, in my next journey."

Doriana's voice pierced the Long Night, raw and desperate, echoing through the narrow streets of Maria-Se. "Please stop! Please, stop!" Her cries cracked with grief, each word tearing from her throat like glass.

In the courtyard, neighbours moved in solemn silence, their eyes fixed anywhere but on her. Two of them crouched by the small pyre, stacking dry wood, as if ignoring her pleas might somehow mute the pain filling the air.

Muru stood at the centre of it all; his broad shoulders were rigid, his jaw clenched so tightly the veins in his neck stood out. In one hand, he gripped a torch, the flame flickering hungrily in the night breeze. In the other, a small bundle wrapped in linen sheets cradled against his chest like a fragile artefact, not a life that had slipped through their fingers.

Doriana's bare feet slapped against the cobblestones as she stumbled toward him, her hair matted with sweat and tears, her gown clinging to her still-aching body. She could barely stand, but her legs moved on sheer will. Her arms reached out, trembling, as if she could snatch the bundle from him, as if that might change everything.

"Muru, please!" Her voice broke on his name, the sound brittle as the wood beneath the pyre. "Don't do this. He's not—he's not gone! I can feel him, please!"

But Muru didn't look at her. His eyes were fixed on the pyre, his face set in a mask of grief he refused to let spill over. His fingers tightened around the torch, the flame reflecting in his dark eyes.

The neighbours exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. The kindling crackled softly beneath the weight of the wood, waiting.

Doriana's knees buckled, but she caught herself, staggering forward another step. "Please!"

Still, Muru didn't move.

The torch hovered over the pyre, the bundle in his other hand held tighter as if he feared it might float away if he loosened his grip.

And in that frozen moment, the world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for the fire to decide everything.

"Muru! Stop!" Doriana's scream ripped through the courtyard. Blood still trickled down her legs, soaking the hem of her gown, but she didn't care. Her body burned with pain from the labour, but the fire in her chest—that was worse.

"Give me my baby! Give me my boy!"

She lunged forward, but the medic and the doula gripped her arms, holding her back. Their hands were firm, their faces set in cold, professional detachment as if this was just another task to complete.

"Mrs. Ann, we need to burn the body before it becomes a Nightmare," the medic said as though he were explaining a simple fact, not tearing apart what was left of her heart. "You know this is for the best."

Doriana thrashed in their grasp, her fingernails clawing at the medic's sleeve, but he didn't flinch. The doula whispered something in her ear, words meant to soothe, but they were meaningless against the roaring in Doriana's head.

Muru stood at the pyre, the torch in his hand casting long shadows across his face. He wouldn't look at her. His eyes stayed fixed on the bundle in his other arm, wrapped too tightly in linen, as if smothering it could erase the truth.

"He's not gone!" Doriana sobbed. "I can feel him!"

She thrashed against the grip of the medic and doula, her body screaming in protest, but she didn't care. "Muru Ann! If you hurt my baby, I will never forgive you! Never! Mark my words, you piece of...!"

Muru finally turned toward her, but his face was swallowed by the shadows of the Long Night. The flickering torchlight caught the hollow set of his eyes, making him look like a stranger carved from stone. He said nothing.

Instead, he moved calmly, stepping toward the pyre. The bundle of linen—their baby—rested in his arms, cradled as if it were nothing more than a fragile object to be disposed of. Doriana's screams died into a strangled sob as she watched him.

Without hesitation, Muru placed the silent infant atop the pyre.

"No!" Doriana shrieked, her body trembling with the effort to break free. But the medic's grip tightened, holding her firm as if restraining a wild animal.

The torch in Muru's hand lowered, the flame hovering inches from the dry logs. And then—a blur of motion.

Out of the shadows, a massive black wolf lunged, its body a streak of darkness against the pale moonlight. It leapt over the pyre with a fierce grace, landing between the flames and the fragile bundle. The wolf's enormous frame curled protectively around the infant, its sleek, star-flecked fur bristling as it let out a deep, guttural roar that echoed through the courtyard like a thunderclap.

The crowd gasped, stumbling backwards in shock. Even Muru faltered, his torch slipping from his grip, falling uselessly to the ground. The medic and doula released Doriana, their attention yanked toward the beast.

The wolf's eyes blazed, locking onto each face in the crowd with a warning that needed no words. Its snarl rumbled through the silence, daring anyone to come closer.

Doriana collapsed to her knees, tears streaming down her face as she stared at the impossible sight before her.

Her baby was protected.

For the first time since her personal nightmare began, a flicker of hope ignited in her chest.

The wolf's growl stretched on, a constant, ominous hum. And then—everything stopped. The flicker of flames, the rustling of clothes, the faint whispers of the wind—all of it—stolen in an instant. Time had been ripped away once more, leaving only the wolf and the fragile, silent bundle at its paws.

The Howling Night lowered its head, its massive frame trembling with something close to desperation. Its nose brushed gently against the linen-wrapped infant, nudging with the carefulness of something so powerful trying not to break something so fragile.

"Master?" The word came as a soft rumble from deep in the wolf's chest, a coaxing plea.

The little head, crowned with golden hair, remained still.

The wolf whimpered, a sound so unlike its earlier growl, filled with raw grief and helplessness. It nudged the baby again, gentler this time, as if the touch alone might breathe life back into the quiet body.

"Master, you need to wake up," the Howling Night whispered, the words trembling as they left its mouth, laced with something dangerously close to fear.

But there was nothing.

No movement. No sound. No sign of life.

The wolf's eyes dimmed, its chest heaving with a silent. It pressed its nose against the baby's tiny cheek, a final, desperate attempt to feel warmth.

"Master," the Howling Night whimpered. Its voice fractured in the stillness. "You promised."

The direwolf's enormous head lowered as it pressed its nose gently against the tiny, lifeless forehead. Its tongue swept across the cold skin in a tender, almost desperate gesture.

Something fragile stirred—a hope it couldn't quite extinguish. The wolf's silent prayer, a plea, whispered into the Long Night.

And then, unnoticed by the wolf or the frozen crowd, a small, glowing butterfly drifted down from the ether above. Its wings glimmered with faint luminescence, delicate veins of light tracing patterns that seemed to pulse in time with the wolf's silent prayer. The butterfly, or saat, landed softly on the infant's tiny nose, its legs barely imprinting on the cold skin.

The saat crawled slowly, its wings folding as it slipped up into one of the infant's nostrils. The movement was subtle, almost imperceptible, like a spark hiding beneath the ash—waiting.

And still, the wolf waited.

Then, suddenly, the world shifted.

Behind them, the Ninth Moon stirred, its light blooming over the horizon like a pulse of ancient magic. The sky, once cloaked in the shadows of the Long Night, transformed into a canvas of deep blue, bleeding into purples and fiery reds. The colours spread like wildfire, spilling into the courtyard, painting every stone, every face, in the hues of dawn.

And as the first rays of that dawn kissed the earth, a sound pierced the stillness.

A cry.

The world snapped back into motion. The wind stirred. The air pulsed. The frozen bodies of the medic, the doula and the neighbours—all jolted as if the cry had ripped them from some unseen slumber.

Muru's eyes, wide with disbelief, locked onto the tiny, wailing bundle on the pyre. He couldn't trust what his eyes were seeing and reached out with shaking arms, scooping the baby.

Muru cradled the baby against his chest, his eyes filling with something between awe and terror.

"By the stars... es ra," he whispered, his voice breaking as the baby's cries echoed against the courtyard walls, a sound louder and more powerful than any magic.

Life had returned.

Muru clutched the infant against his chest, the baby's cries echoing into the morning. But he didn't try to soothe the child—he simply held on, anchoring himself to something he couldn't quite comprehend.

Doriana walked closer with a sudden burst of strength that seemed impossible given the blood still seeping down her legs, staining the hem of her gown. She stumbled forward, her arms outstretched, her face alight with a fragile, desperate hope.

She reached him, her voice trembling. "Muru... please..."

Her eyes shone with tears and the flickering dawn light as she gazed at the infant, their child. "Our Esra," she whispered, tasting the name on her tongue like a fragile promise. Esra—it was beautiful, soft and strong all at once. It felt right.

But Muru's face shifted.

As he handed the baby over to her trembling arms, his expression darkened. A stern shadow fell over his features, sharpening the lines around his mouth and hardening his gaze.

"This is your son," he said, his voice low and cold, each word like a blade sliding beneath her ribs. "Not mine."

Doriana froze, her breath catching in her throat, the warmth of her child's body pressed against her chest, grounding her in that moment.

Muru didn't wait for a reply. He turned sharply on his heel, his footsteps heavy against the stone courtyard, the echo of his departure louder than the baby's cries.

Without another word, he vanished into the shadows of the Long Night, leaving Doriana standing alone, clutching Esra to her chest as tears slid silently down her cheeks, mixing with the sweat and blood of her labour.

Without sparing a glance at the sky, now shifting from the inky blues of the Long Night to the bruised purples and reds of a reluctant dawn, Doriana tightened her grip on Esra.

And in that moment, she understood.

Muru's words and coldness—it all made sense now. Esra wasn't his son. Esra was an incubus. Just like Mediah.

[Words scratched out in anger] by Duvencrune, Edgar O. Diary of the Long Night, 111th Edition

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